The Piano

There is an old piano
That sits in our house.
It was made around 1903.
It is showing its age
With scratches and scars
And the chips in some of the keys.

It is silent most days
Which brings sadness to me
For none of us here can play.
It was bought for my daughter
Who's married, in school,
And living a few towns away.

I remember when she
Was just learning to play
How she struggled with every note.
And then as she grew
How her hands fairly flew
Making the music to float

Throughout the house.
And I'd listen and listen
And listen some more
Until she grew tired of playing
And had to rest for awhile.
It filled something deep in my core.

Was it pride that caused me
To beg her for more or was
It filling some deeper need?
Was it that I was wishing
That it was me playing
Such beautiful music indeed?

Or was it the music itself
That I craved that drew
Me to beg her to play?
Was it a vicarious
Need that was being filled?
I just can't really say.

Perhaps it was all
Of these things and more
That gave me such a lift.
There is one thing certain;
It must have been God
That granted this beautiful gift.